The plane touched down on an off-the-grid military runway in southeast Georgia. I hesitate to say airport because there was no tower and ours was the sole airplane. We landed, climbed into a rented Suburban, and in less than three minutes were accelerating south down the I-95 on-ramp. A few miles later, we turned east off I-95 at exit 58 and wound through two-lane highways to a map-dot fishing hamlet called Spellman Bluff.
Just past the Dollar General, two run-down bars sat opposite each other on the only road leading in. The marquis at the first read, “My favorite form of exercise is a beer run.” The second played off it by responding, “Yeah, I have a feeling my check liver light might come on this weekend.”
We pulled off the hardtop onto a dirt road that led toward the water. Bones wound through abandoned double-wides and dilapidated shacks where bamboo shoots spiraled out of rusty cars with no wheels and no engines and long-forgotten sailboats lay on their hulls, choked by vines, home now to cats and rats. This is ancient earth populated by old trees, some six feet in diameter, whose moss-draped limbs swoop down to kiss the ground only to rise again.
We cruised down a private drive and parked at what looked like an old fish camp. Well kept, unlit, and apparently empty.
“How’d you know about this place?” I asked.
He smiled. “I don’t tell you all my secrets.”
We stowed our gear, and Bones took me to a covered dock where he punched a button, raising the door, and then pulled the cover off a Zodiac Pro RIB—an extremely durable half-rubber, half-fiberglass boat about twenty-four feet long and just over nine feet wide. Powered by twin 350-horsepower Mercury Verados, it could carry a dozen people and do so quickly. It also would allow us to do this relatively unseen, as matte black rubber tends to blend into the night.
“Nice boat,” I quipped.
“Thought you’d like it.” He tossed me a line. “Get in. Let’s go for a ride.”
It was after midnight. Dead low tide and the half-moon shone on the oyster beds rising up like pitcher’s mounds around us. If there were that many around us, then what lay beneath us was a bed of razor blades. Bones navigated through the shadows seemingly without thinking, turning the wheel via muscle memory. We ran dark. No running lights.
I asked but the question was rhetorical: “You been here before?”
He pointed to a bluff, the remains of a dock and what had been a home. “Grew up there.”
I had no idea. “Really?” Our wake spilled gently over the few remaining dock pilings freckled with barnacles.
Bones smiled like a man who’d just returned home to the smell of fried chicken and hugged his mother.
We idled out of the tributary and into the larger waters that bled into the Intracoastal. The Southeast Georgia coastline is protected by hundreds of barrier islands, most of which were inhabited at one time. North of us sat St. Catherines Island, once home to several thousand Guale Indians. South of St. Catherines sat Blackbeard Island, named after the famous Savannah smuggler and pirate. Some think the island still holds his treasure. South of the Sapelo Sound, gateway to the Atlantic and entrance to the Intracoastal, sat Sapelo Island. A wildlife refuge.
I could tell by the look on his face that Bones was calculating distance and time. He pointed at the sound. “If she enters here”—I followed his finger south down the IC Waterway—“either she’ll turn hard south and follow the coastline, or if she needs fuel or is picking up passengers, she’ll head inland.”
“How will we know?”
Another smile. “Local knowledge.”
Inland waterways are charted by multiple engineers and experts before they are printed. The intersection of land and sea is literally measured with satellites, and thousands of hours are spent providing the best and most up-to-date information available. But inland waterways are not static and have a way of moving. Whether a result of hurricanes or time, the banks and depths change constantly, which can wreak havoc on captains. Given this uncertainty, every chart is printed with words like “Strangers should seek local knowledge before navigating this area.” Or “Numerous submerged pilings. Local knowledge is advised.”
Local knowledge refers to what the locals know by use. By being on the water. And few, if any, have ever read a chart.
Bones said, “There’ll be a dozen. Nine to twelve years of age. Two pairs of brothers taken from Sweden to Switzerland. Blond hair. Fair skin. The traffickers wrote programs that sifted their parents’ social media.”
Disgust crossed his face. “Auction closed yesterday. Ten days and 130 time slots.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
Bones nodded. “The Sonshine is eighty meters, and they’ll board her east of Savannah. Four decks above the waterline. Three below. Her amenities include everything you can
imagine. Saunas. Massage parlors. Hot tubs. Bars. Couple of pools. Several dining rooms. Dance floors. Fitness centers. Suites. Quarters for up to forty crew.” Bones shook his head. “It’s a floating hell. And citadel.”
“It’s a floating hundred million dollars.”
Bones continued, “She’ll sail south along the coast, then turn inland just north of Cumberland and take on the first clients in the ditch. Either by helicopter or a thirty-six-foot Intrepid. And before you ask . . . four 400-horsepower Mercury Verados.”
We studied the water for an hour. Talking through possibilities. What if she turned this way? What if she turned that way? Finally, at close to 2:00 a.m., we returned to the fish camp where Bones scrambled some eggs and I wandered around his two-bedroom home where I found no decorations. Only one small picture. Black and white. Two boys in the water. One holding a cast net. The other with his hand on the tiller.
“You come here much?”
He shook his head but didn’t take his eyes off the pan. “Not much.”
I had known Bones for twenty-five-plus years, and yet I’d never once heard about a home on the coast. Nor the fact that he grew up here. “You owned it long?”
A shrug. “Since before I found you.”
Bones’s silence struck me as strange, but I didn’t push him. It was late and he’d talk if and when he wanted. We finished our eggs, I washed dishes, and Bones headed to the door. As he closed it behind him, he said, “Gotta check on a few things.” He pointed at my room. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow we . . .” A chuckle. “Blend in.”
“Blend in” was code for reconnaissance, but I asked anyway. “What for?” He smiled. “Local knowledge.”
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